


The Measure of a Man

by ignipes



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-17
Updated: 2006-11-17
Packaged: 2017-10-07 04:26:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignipes/pseuds/ignipes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad sixteenth birthday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Measure of a Man

When Sam came home from school, Dean was in the kitchen trying to figure out how to build a flamethrower out of twenty inches of plastic tubing, a flat bike tire, one dismantled Coleman stove, a blow torch, a t-joint and stop valve liberated from the upstairs bathroom, and four feet of PVC piping.

Dean heard the front door slam and Sam's earthquake-like footsteps stomping through the house, up the stairs and down the hall. He heard the bathroom door slam and began counting.

"One one-hundred, two one-hundred, three--"

"_Dean!_" Sam's bellow echoed through the house, and there was a crash as he swung the bathroom door open again. "_What the hell did you do to the toilet?_"

Rather than answering, Dean waited until Sam pounded down the steps and appeared in the kitchen doorway, scowling. "You took the toilet apart."

"I needed the parts," Dean said mildly.

"What for?"

"Flamethrower."

"Oh. Why couldn't you use the one down here?"

"Why can't you use the one down here?"

Sam pulled a chair back from the table and flung himself into it, letting out a huge, dramatic, put-upon sigh. "I don't like the one down here."

"It's a toilet," Dean said, clicking the igniter of the stove and watching it spark. "They're all the same."

"No, they're not," Sam retorted. "The downstairs one has that window that--" He stopped abruptly and looked down, but not fast enough to hide the blush that rose on his cheeks.

"That looks right into Mrs. Malone's kitchen?" Dean finished for him. "Don't worry, Sammy, I think she has better things to do than watch you piss while she's cooking dinner." Then again, Mrs. Malone's husband spent an awful lot of time out of town and she was in the habit of doing her gardening while wearing nothing but a silk robe, but Dean figured Sam didn't need to be reminded of that. Instead, he asked, "How was school?"

Sam looked up from under his mop of messy hair, still scowling. "Stupid."

"I could've told you that."

"I got a B on my math test," Sam began, his need to pee apparently forgotten for the moment.

"That's good."

"No it's _not_," Sam snapped, kicking at the leg of the table. "It sucks and now I have to get an A on the final to get an A in the class."

"You will." Dean didn't even bother doubting it.

But Sam ignored him. "And Mrs. Talbot told me I have to rewrite my European history essay. She says I use too many big words and commas and sound pretentious."

Dean didn't doubt that, either, but he only made a sympathetic noise while he cut the valve free of the tire tube.

"And I broke four beakers in chemistry," Sam went on. "Mr. Wicklow made me leave the lab. He said I have to come in at lunch tomorrow to finish it, and I'll fail if I break any more equipment."

Four beakers was nothing, totally minor league. One of Dean's fondest high school memories was of blowing up the entire chemistry lab and blaming it on the quarterback and his posse of brain-damaged, cross-eyed, dick-sucking followers.

"And," Sam said. He kicked the leg of the table again, jostling all of Dean's flamethrower parts and shoving the table at least six inches across the floor.

Dean waited.

"And Emily Mullin is going to prom with Steve Bauer." Sam said it very quickly, without looking up, and Dean could swear that his face grew even redder. "I thought she was _smart_ but she's just as stupid as all the other girls and thinks he's _so_ funny when he's just being a big jerk. People only laugh because they're afraid he'll smash their faces if they don't. I don't know why she even likes him."

Dean tried to keep a straight face, he really did, but in the end he had to stand up and walk over to the sink so Sam wouldn't see him smiling. He tried to remember if he had been such a, well, _girl_ about girls when he was sixteen, but he doubted it.

"That sucks, man," he said, managing a serious expression before turning around leaning against the counter. "Sounds like your birthday wasn't much fun."

Sam looked up sharply, and there was no mistaking the surprise on his face. "I thought you forgot," he said, his eyes narrowing.

"Dude, that hurts. I would never forget your birthday."

Looking down again, Sam mumbled, "Dad did."

Dean's gut twisted unpleasantly. "No, he didn't. Don't be stupid."

"I'm not stupid. He hasn't even called."

"You just got home five minutes ago."

Sam rolled his eyes and stood up, walked over to the fridge and pulled the door open. "Whatever. He forgot."

"He'll call later," Dean replied, though he was far from sure of it. They hadn't heard from Dad in two days, and when he last called he'd been a little preoccupied by a poltergeist and hadn't even mentioned Sammy's birthday. Dean had thought about reminding him -- sixteen was supposed to be a big deal, after all -- but Dad had sounded so tired and distracted he didn't have the heart.

"Yeah, sure," Sam said, shrugging away Dean's reassurance. He stared into the open refrigerator, swinging the door back and forth and frowning. "There's nothing to eat. There's never anything to eat except stupid leftovers. How do we eat leftovers all the time if we never cook real meals in the first place? It's so stupid. Everything is stupid."

Sammy looked so miserable that for a moment Dean thought he was actually going to cry if he had to eat leftover spaghetti on his sixteenth birthday. Dean thought of the fifty bucks in his pocket, money he was saving for the Impala's new wheel bearings, and he thought of spending the entire night watching Sam sulk and waiting for Dad to call.

"Hey, look," he said, stepping forward to shove Sam's shoulder. "Let's go out and get--"

Sam slammed the fridge door and glared at Dean, but his expression shifted almost immediately from glowering to thoughtful. He straightened his shoulders and stepped closer to Dean, leaning in until they were nearly nose-to-nose.

"Uh, dude?" Dean leaned back awkwardly. "What the--"

Sam let out a strange little laugh. "I'm taller than you."

"What?" Dean automatically stood up straighter. "No, you're not. Look, I was saying we should--"

"I am. I'm taller than you." Sam's voice was filled with awe, and he lifted his hand to measure the difference between the top of his head and Dean's.

"It's your shoes," Dean retorted, even though he was wearing shoes too.

"I'm _totally_ taller than you."

"It's your hair."

"Half an inch. More."

"You're not--" Dean stopped and sighed. Sometimes it was hard to face, sure, but he would never let it be said that he was scared of the truth, no matter how much it sucked. "Fine. Maybe a little bit. A _very_ little bit."

Sam's face broke into a huge grin. "That is so fucking _cool_!"

"It's _half an inch_, genius." Dean wondered how the hell he hadn't noticed before, and decided he would blame it on Sam's terrible posture and slouching around all over the place. "You won't get any taller."

"You're a midget!" Sam crowed, throwing his arms out wildly, just barely missing Dean's face.

"Don't get too excited there, Sammy. You might hurt yourself."

"You're a _midget_," Sam said again, still grinning like a moron.

"I can still kick your ass."

"Yeah? I'd like to see you try, Shorty." Sam laughed and stumbled back a few steps when Dean lunged at him.

Still laughing, he broke free of Dean's grasp and spun around, ran from the kitchen and pounded up the steps. His laughter cut off with a sharp yelp, followed quickly by a deafening crash on the floor.

Dean smiled to himself. Sweet sixteen and Sammy was taller, maybe, but certainly not any more graceful, or any more capable of tying his shoes.

"Hey, Gigantor!" he shouted, leaning out of the kitchen doorway. "If you didn't knock yourself out from falling all that way, tie your shoes and get your ass down here so we can go get something to eat."

There was a muffled curse, then Sam asked, "Can I drive?"

Dean started to give his usual response -- _no frickin' way, geek_ \-- but stopped himself. It wasn't like Sam turned sixteen every day, and to have him laughing and gloating over his newfound half inch of superior height and grinding the gears on the Impala was better than bitching and moaning and wondering when Dad was going to call.

"We leave in two minutes," Dean said. "You're not down here, I'm going to celebrate your birthday without you. And eat all your cake."

"Okay," Sam called down the steps. Then, so quietly Dean would think he imagined it if he didn't know better: "_Midget_."


End file.
